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It started as playing around, throwing moves. I then became weary from ‘performing’ and kicked back over the edge, opening my heart and throat to the sky, to breathe. I rose up and asked her:
- Do you have a topic for me?
- But I don’t know anything about parkour.
- It’s not about parkour anymore, it’s just movement.
- Ok, so how do you want to move?
- Then just be yourself, be in the moment… feel… listen to what’s going on around you.
I kicked back again, this time standing, and I sensed. Same old, said the mind. But something gradually took over. Movements of oscillating grazing against the ground in touch with the concrete edge then followed, proliferated. Is it a ceaseless lament of birth, becoming and dying?
It is no longer kicking off the objects. A traceur now is reading subtle feeling tones within. How would it be to tell about pain and loss, and love and dream to a concrete wall? How would it be to never design it thinking about it?
This is how it is: the concrete wall is a steady partner in conversation endowed with an unwavering listening capacity. Yet it talks back all the time. This surface is way harder than this flesh, tendons and bones. Yet we dance: the beauty and the beast. The concrete, the fragile and the antifragile.
The latter is the movement.
The heart knows no limits. Its moving expansiveness is all-embracing, overwhelming, all-inclusive, revering. Here this grey graphitised surface is my confession box. Are there words to describe this outpour? One can analyse: the experience of aging, getting sick, disintegrating, overlaps with a personal history of little lovely attachments and kitties cuddling in the warm basket of life. The unspeakable anguish over that which is lost, is being lost, about to be lost, couples with endless inspiration raining down from the wide blue sky. The dream I cherished over the years: to move freely, confidently, powerfully, honestly, is being told into the space, carried by the wind, pulverised through the atmosphere.
This dream was asked then: how to be? Facing existence, it grew to accept the dispiriting. It was an ‘uneasy learning to masculinity’, as my dear friend called it. This ‘being a man’ is being fierce yet gentle, deranged yet lucid, scared yet advancing, confused and honest. What does one really know? Only this moment. Only fleeting experience of aggregates of existence coming to be and disappearing. The striving of a man is to bring about the movement of insight, dispel the lethargy, tame the hatred, soothe the restlessness, abandon remorse and embrace, not repress, sensuality with a steady noble poise of peacefulness and wisdom. This striving is a descent into weakness and submissiveness.
This dance of a man is not to shine and impress beautiful ladies. It is about unfolding and exposing a vulnerable and unworthy creature hidden within. An absurd, erratic, abnormal, vehement, hysteric being, caught in basic bewilderment, wanting nothing but light, care, tenderness and embrace.
May the sun shine, may the rough surface caress shivering skin, may she, who suggested being yourself in the present moment and listen, see it all. For it is there first of all for a woman to see a man the way he is, unpolished by masculine attractiveness, unfixed by self-dominance, unenlightened and bewildered. And if there is seeing with empathy, empowerment happens, healing happens and enlightenment, which is a release of the heart from the grip of bewilderment.
Deep restfulness ensues.
Movement: Evgenii Timofeev
Camera: Stella Tsui
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